THEY WERE DANCING, OUT IN BACK OF THE JAIL—EIGHT OR TEN women and a few children. John watched them. They wanted her to hear and see them. Her cell, no more than three metres away. What were they singing? Whatever it was there was more of them arriving and believing her a demon of some kind. One of the women was Lucretia. Lucretia egged the men on—wanted them to drag the American bitch from her cell. But she was always stopped by her sister, Principia—who begged her to contain herself. Once, Lucretia peed herself she was so excited. In the many scenarios and more than a thousand press reports about what happened the last day, this would not be mentioned immediately. It would of course when the real book came out.
Did they know the real book would someday come out? The real book that would never blame her for being British, being Catholic, having money, caring for a child she couldn’t cope with, being adopted, making mistakes she regretted with both lovers and friends? The book that would say in whispers that she was a great woman—ho de ho, ho, ho, a saint?
That book?
Perhaps, perhaps not.
But you see, this was a time when people like Lucretia felt absolutely free in the ability to not contain themselves. So she laughed gaily, sauntered up to the bars and looked in, proclaiming:
“¿Qué es una mujer como usted haciendo aquí?”
What’s a woman like you doing here?
And shaking her head sorrowfully.
One night the German he had spoken to came and stood beside him. John asked what those women were saying.
“Über einen Mord, oder Mörder, in Oathoa,” he said.
About a murder, or a murderer, in Oathoa.
The German handed him a litre of wine, and he took a drink. “Gut,” he said.
Then the German said:
“Things will turn about—it will just take time.”
“Okay,” John said. “Thank you.”
They were secretive, this German-Dutch couple—they looked like two conspirators. John wasn’t sure why. Some of the things John asked they shrugged at. At times they spoke together quietly. And discreetly.
The Russians were pleasant but a little inscrutable. Two American women simply assumed, when John did speak to them, that she was guilty of something—anything at all. And that people like her should leave those poor Mexicans alone.
One other thing the German mentioned. It was a long time ago, but this Mary Cyr was his wife’s pen pal years ago—this Dutchwoman was once a Dutch girl named Norma van Haut.
“So she will fight to the death for her,” he said, “and if she will, so will I.”
Just like that, off the cuff. The German seemed happy and expansive, just like a vacationer should. But with his bull neck, heavy frame and delighted, fearless eyes, dangerous.
“Does Mary know?”
“No—and neither did my wife until late last night. Then she put two and two.”
Here he smiled and stretched a bit, and they watched the setting sun.
Then he said:
“My grandfather unfortunately was quite a good SS officer who fought against the Canadian First Army. He was friends with Dug Vanderflutin.”